


Enemy at the Backdoor

by Aquatics



Category: Enemy at the Door (TV)
Genre: Closeted Character, Crack, Military Uniforms, Nazi Germany, Other, Tentacle Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23840626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aquatics/pseuds/Aquatics
Summary: Klaus Reinicke goes to investigate suspected black market activity, and attracts the attention of something not entirely human.Pure crack.
Relationships: Klaus Reinicke/OMC, Tentacle Monster/Klaus Reinicke
Kudos: 8





	Enemy at the Backdoor

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the anon who suggested the title.

The building was cold, damp, and smelled of mildew. The corridors were grey and covered with large splotches of algae, which crept over the crevices and infiltrated every single crack. By the light of his lantern, it looked vaguely like Haubtstormfürer Klaus Reinnicke’s boyhood picture of the laboratory in the Island of Doctor Moreau. He couldn’t help but feel a certain thrill at the prospect of searching through forbidden archives and secret experiments, even if they were most likely just part of the black market. For that reason, he had come alone. 

Jürg, his orderly, was looking quite well-fed these days. His unexplained, irregular activities in various cafes was good reason to believe an involvement in the black market. (That, and the fact that living on an island was horribly boring, if safe. Even riding with the general was boring when there were no secrets to be vetted out.) Therefore, Klaus had decided to investigate alone, under the guise of a private riding trip. He had made a map out of the different routes Jürg seemed to be taking, and drew the conclusion that all paths passed the road towards the old, abandoned factory building that had ceased operations in 1909.

The venture proved successful at first. The cafeteria held evidence of recent habitation: A coffee pot in the mess-room stove, recently used. Dull, crashing sounds likely from a generator of sorts, given the suspicious cables crossing the floor. They wriggled and writhed in labyrinthine circles, going into one room twice, swirling around the legs of several cabinets before disappearing back into the corridor, down the stairs. Through the window, out, back in through a vent. Whomever had laid out the cable knew exactly what he was doing, which made Klaus all the more determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, once and for all. For the sake of the fatherland, and to see the look on Jürg’s handsome lady-killer face, once he realised that he’d been caught in the act. 

Klaus smiled to himself while following the cable down the stairs, into the dark basement, readying his torch as he went. Jürg would be pouting with those full, handsome lips of his, possibly even clenching his slender pianist fingers into powerful fists. And he wouldn’t be able to do anything at all. The very idea sent a thrill through Klaus’s spine. He put his foot down hard, miscalculating the distance between stair and floor, landing on his face with a crash. Another, louder and more crush-sounding crash followed, sending him into total darkness.

The floor was cold and damp. He groaned as he pulled himself upright, feeling pain shoot through his shoulders. The darkness made it impossible to find the torch; he kept kicking around until his foot hit a wall, making him grit his teeth. God-dammit.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and waited, counting every exhalation. Two minutes were usually enough for for his eyes to adjust to the dark, if his old university adventures were anything to go by.

1.

2.

3..

24…

30….

Drip.

Klaus’ brow furrowed.

42.

Drip.

43.

50..

89…

Drop.

The sound was much closer at this point.

90.

92.

Drip, drip, drop.

Klaus’ eyes shot open. He turned around, gripping the luger. There was nobody there, no animal, no plant, nor did he hear any telltale footsteps. The only sound, save the incipient dripping, came from a drainpipe filling with what must be rainwater. 

He felt around for the wall, blinking as his eyes got used to the darkness. A narrow corridor spread out in front of him, while the other direction revealed what appeared to be the staircase. The torch was curiously gone, hidden somewhere in the depths of the cement floor. Somewhere between the abundance of criss-crossed cables, thicker and larger in number than the twig-like ones on the floor above. The darkness was playing tricks on him; they looked to be pulsating. A bit further up, the staircase lay before him, so he took one step ahead. The second was less easy, as if something was holding his boot back. 

A smile grew on his face. Delayed reaction. Light visual hallucinations. Damp air. All symptomatic of carbon monoxide poisoning. The cables must be part of some machinery, he thought, still gripping the luger as he slowly began to slide backwards. Diesel-fuelled machinery currently in operation, expelling gas into the basement. That, or a mound of compost for easy decomposition. Either way, something cold and wet had fallen down his boot - Probably a stray drop from the ceiling being exaggerated by means of hallucination. High time to leave. 

He attempted to take a step forward, only to find that it was not possible. His other foot was stuck on the floor in some sort of rubber grip, elastic enough to allow for some motion, before being snapped back into place. The stairs seemed to be growing further away, as if he were being tugged backwards by some invisible force. He grit his teeth, gathered his strength, and internally cursed as he struggled to rid himself from the iron grip. It did not work. He frowned, understanding this to be the ’paralysis’ stage of a gas attack. Fantastic. Not only was his lungs filling with brain-rotting poison, his chances of escaping had grown extremely slim. His fists clenched with desperation. The irony! The shame of not dying in battle, old age, or some ill-advised career move. 

The coldness crept over his legs, slithering like snakes past his knees, settling to hug his thighs. His eyes clenched shut; this must be his body shutting down, although it wasn’t accompanied by any other symptoms - This entire thing must be an extended hallucination. The cold damp feeling reached his waist, slinking like a curious ferret, writhing until Klaus was certain of it being wet, judging by the clammy feeling on his stomach and the way the material clung. The fabric slid against his skin as if soaked in thick, viscous oil, the kind that kept his kübelwagen from shutting down. Had it been warmer, it might have been something closer to pleasant, he realised, disgusted. 

The dark cable didn’t care; it gripped him tightly, like a fat piece of rope around his stomach, expelling some of the air from his chest. His breath grew even more laboured, puffing backwards and forwards in short breathes, making the most of the little room the apparition gave him. This strangled, half-choking sensation crept higher, until his shoulders and arms were gently tugged back in some sort of slug-like grip, seeping liquid into his sleeves. It didn’t feel quite as cold by this point - Perhaps the hallucination, or whatever it was was warming to him. He hoped so. It would make this ordeal far less unpleasant, no matter how it ended.

He opened his eyes, inhaling carefully. The grip around his waist lessened, clearly not planning to squeeze him to death. His eyes narrowed; a thick, distinctly pulsating cable was slithering out from behind the staircase. This must be the end, he thought, snapping his eyes shut again. He tried to think of something good, something pretty, something to bring joy to these final moments. Jürg’s recruitment-poster face grinned at him, ready and rearing to take on any orders. It made Klaus smile for the briefest of moments, before a slight tightening of the grip around his waist thrust him back to the present. Something wet and slimy dove into his shirt, sending a sharp chill down his spine. His collar chafed; a button flew off, the amount of mollusk-like tendril seemed to grow, oozing over his chest like a giant tongue, tickling past the hair on his stomach like a gloved hand. 

He groaned, feeling blood rush to his cheeks. The touch was too familiar, too reminiscent of a junior officer’s touch against his shoulders, his waist, anywhere that men touched one-another. Definitely not where the tendril was heading. Thankfully, it stopped at the very start of his groin, opting instead to swell until his trousers strained. A soft ’plock’ alerted him to the fact that two buttons were lost forever, leaving the creature free to slide down the waistband of of his underwear. It wasn’t even cold at this point, just extremely distressing and intrusive. 

He bit his lip to keep from crying out as the appendage slithered past his manhood, the one spot where he dearly hoped that it would not linger. He’d always been far too easy to excite, especially in places where nothing ought to be able to, be it from fear or an occasionally distracted moment of weakness. It did not linger, or so he thought, until he realised that he had missed another tentacle rolling up his trousers. It noticed the embarrassment - Klaus’ weakness rising to the wrong occasion - and cooly slithered over it, until it was stuck in a tight, yet not suffocating grip. Klaus frowned. It felt strangely soft and just enough like a tight, virginal woman to stoke his fires, which was far from welcome in a situation where he couldn’t reach his luger. Emasculating, to say the least. Which wasn’t helped by the other tendril sliding over his taint, stopping to prod at it as if searching for an opening. He felt a minuscule sense of pride over it’s lack of findings, soon dashed by the sensation of mucus sliding towards the last place he ever considered anyone to have any interest in.

The tendril rubbed against him, oozing to the point where he was certain that his trousers were going to be spoiled. It was not unpleasant, to his great despair. The sensation of something sliding along his opening was like having his face shoved into a soft, downy pillow, soothing his alarm. His breathing slowed, the shock (it must be the shock) made his legs heavy and limp, as if reverting to the jelly from which they were formed. Primal fluids. Seminal fluids. Oh god, this was hard. More frustratingly: He was hard. Every stroke from the tendril sent a hot flush down his thighs, gathering in the one place that should really not be aroused under the circumstances. He tried again to think of less exciting things: The sauna back at HQ, Richter’s disapproving glances, the General’s hand curled around a whip - Heat shot to his groin, despite his valiant attempt at keeping it down. The tentacular grip was maddening; The desire to move made his hips tremble like a tower of sand, stroked to and fro by the wind.

A sudden intrusion made him gasp and jut forward, sending his lions into another spiral of pure lust. The lukewarm appendage oozed inside, swelling just enough to cause a very unfamiliar, yet not wholly unwelcome sensation. His toes curled inside of his boots, egged on by the strange wave of heat washing over his body. This was wrong, he realised, weakly leaning into the grip on his member. Men did not like being touched there. It was strange, unnatural. Faggots did it, faggots and seed-wasting hedonists who failed to cultivate interest in providing the reich with full-blooded children. Wastes of skin. He wasn’t one of those, couldn’t be. He was an SS Haubtstormfürer, not a common faggot. The badge on his chest felt hot and heavy, perhaps indignant at being betrayed in such a manner, even by way of enemy force.

The pressure in his backside grew as the tentacles slid further, growing in a way that made his thighs spread, no doubt slick with the slime that oozed from his opening, easing the degradation and potential future destruction of one SS Officer. The pressure kept growing, building a wave that made him desperately want to move an inch, a centimetre, even one millimetre to keep it from crashing prematurely. He noticed to his alarm that the tendrils around his manhood were gripping him tighter, growing more and more taught by the seconds. He closed his eyes, focused on breathing: Inhale, exhale, inhale - 

The tendrils moved forward, forcing a strangled moan from his lips. It felt as if he were on fire, twitching and ready to bury himself inside a man, any man - Any woman, not just a blonde French skirt with too much time on her hands. The friction made him dizzy, desperate for release, wanting the heat of another body- Finally, the blessed light-headedness started settling in - Perhaps the end would come soon. He prayed for that, to be lifted from these earthly bounds, taken away to some more incorporeal form of suffering. 

But it did not. What did happen was that the appendage in his backside grew further, applying just enough weight to hit a spot that did not need to be hit. Was not meant to be hit. Not unless quick sperm extraction was required for the sake of procreation. The sensation overwhelmed him, sweeping through his body like a wave ready to evaporate against the rocks. The tendrils around his - Oh god, they were tighter still, wriggling together until they seemed to be a single sheath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale. Inhale. Hold breath. One strong pump acted as the catalyst, coaxing his breath from his body until there was nothing left of what had once been defiance in the name of the fatherland. He swayed, held up only by copious amounts of otherworldly cables, as his strength bled out over the front of his trousers. He was barely conscious to feel something slithering down his throat, his stomach filling with something cold, clammy and completely indigestible.

He awoke some time later, finding himself at the top of the staircase. The wall had to provide leverage; he was very weak, certain of a dull pain at the bottom of his stomach. After fumbling around for a while, he managed to leave the building, hazily noting that the cables were all gone.

He winced as he climbed into the saddle, holding the reins in a shaky grip. Riding hurt, more than his stomach did. It got properly upset after a few minutes on horseback, he had to stop at the side of the road to throw up, disgusted at what appeared to be eggs or tadpoles of some sort scattered in his vomit. Then again, it might just be an illusion. Might as well be dead already from carbon monoxide poisoning, he reckoned as he climbed back onto the horse, weakly holding onto the reins, registering the fact that it was getting dark and would soon be past curfew.

Thankfully, nobody took notice of him as he snuck into his room, ridding himself of the soiled uniform and slipping into his pyjamas. He made the great mistake of calling for Jürg, who showed up with an eager smile and a cup of coffee.

Klaus had intended to try and get some of information out of Jürg, or at least vent his frustrations on the man, but then Jürg looked straight into his eyes, their hands brushed as he accepted the coffee, and everything just seemed hot and uncomfortable, and a bit too comfortable at the same time.  
”Herr Haubtstormfürer?”

”Permission to speak.” Klaus nodded as the heat from the coffee spread to his cheeks.

”There is going to be a dance on Saturday. I would very much like to have the evening hours off, if that is acceptable to Herr Haubtstormfürer.” Jürg lowered his eyes, showing just how fine and well-formed his jawline ran.

”You may. Remind me in the morning so that I might sign the slip.” Klaus yawned. ”You may be dismissed.”

His heart sank as he watched Jürg nearly skip through the door, though he didn’t dare think about why, lest it drive him to prematurely exhaust his ration of cigars.


End file.
